


Terminal Velocity

by DaftPunk_DeLorean



Series: Unadulterated Sadness and Angst [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cap is a lot unhappier than he lets on, Gen, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Feels, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaftPunk_DeLorean/pseuds/DaftPunk_DeLorean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve thought about home a lot when he first woke up from the ice. He thought about the heat a lot. How it was sultry and oppressive and felt like a pile of rocks on his chest, filling his asthmatic lungs with water, and how it made him feel vital and alive, despite all that. And he would shiver close his eyes and try to remember what it was like not being hollowed out and filled with numbing coldness. What it was like to not already feel dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terminal Velocity

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a tumblr angst drabble for the prompt "Do you ever wonder if the world would be better off without you...?" Sam/Steve

Steve stared out at the glittering lights of the city, heedless of the frigid winter breeze whipping about him like invisible hands trying to push him. He couldn’t tell which direction they were trying to push, but it didn’t matter; he was immovable until he decided otherwise. He wore a thin t-shirt and pajama pants, and the hem of his bathrobe snapped around his knees like a flag, his bare feet icy and rooted to the concrete ledge that surrounded the tower rooftop. 

The tower. Stark Tower. That big ugly building next door to the Chrysler. His home now, he supposed, although he never felt like it here. Not because anyone didn’t welcome him here, he just… _home_ was a sweltering, dusty, fourth-floor, two-room walk-up with a fire escape window that Bucky used to sit in wearing nothing but trousers and a sheen of sweat on his chest, smoking a hand-rolled cig and hollerin’ at the dames on the sidewalk across the way. Home had a single burner and a shared toilet down the hall and running water most of the time, but there was always a crooked grin and a “hiya, pal” waiting for him there, and he felt like a king.

He thought about home a lot when he first woke up from the ice. He thought about the heat a lot. How it was sultry and oppressive and felt like a pile of rocks on his chest, filling his asthmatic lungs with water, and how it made him feel vital and alive, despite all that. And he would shiver close his eyes and try to remember what it was like not being hollowed out and filled with numbing coldness. What it was like to not already feel dead. He couldn’t ever tell if it was the heat he missed, or if it was Bucky who brought the warmth. Truth be told, he started feeling cold the moment Buck fell from the train, and in all this time, he’d never really warmed back up again. He wondered if that’s why it was so easy to make the decision to put the plane in the water in the first place…

Steve slid one foot forward, then the other, until his toes curled over the ledge and he could look straight down the graceful, curving side of the tower. Ninety-three floors. One thousand, one hundred and thirty eight feet. He wondered how long it would take to fall that distance, and quickly did the calculations in his head. About ten seconds, hitting the ground at around 115 miles per hour, if his math was right. 

He wondered if he would survive that, if he would wake up a week later in a hospital with a good-natured doctor patting his shoulder kindly and telling him to be more careful in the line of duty, he wouldn’t be any good to the world dead, then he would awkwardly ask for Steve’s autograph, “for the kids, of course.” And Steve would oblige, wondering who scraped him off the pavement. What they thought about why he ended up there. He wondered if they would have to cart him to the morgue instead. The serum _had_ to have its limits, after all. 

Steve thought about Bucky again, what he would say if he saw Steve now. Well, the Bucky that existed _now_ would probably push Steve off the ledge, and watch him with cold eyes all the way down. But the old Buck… Steve tightened his toes over the ledge, feeling the tiny cracks in the concrete. He let his eyes close, let his muscles relax, so the bitter cold penetrated his muscles and sliced through his bones, and the only sound in his ears was the rushing of the winter wind and the incessant flapping of his bathrobe. Steve took a deep breath, wondering a lot of things. Feeling nothing.

His left heel lifted from the concrete a bit.

“Damn, there you are! What the hell do you want to hang out here in the frozen tundra for, anyway?”

Steve didn’t open his eyes, but he lowered his heel. 

“Hey, Sam.”

“Been lookin’ for you all over. You ever gonna show me those paintings like you promised?” Sam asked, and Steve could hear his voice coming closer, the soft crunch of his shoes against the frosty stone tiles and the soft scuffing sound of him rubbing his hands briskly over his arms.

“Yeah… just getting some fresh air…” Steve said quietly, still not moving. There was a long silence, and Steve almost forgot Sam was behind him.

“Steve? Buddy, you doing all right?” Sam finally asked quietly, and Steve thought of a thousand different answers. He took a breath, letting the bitter air freeze the insides of his nose until it hurt.

"Sam… You ever wonder if the world would be better off without you…?" Steve asked in a flat voice that even he knew sounded messed up. He heard an abrupt shuffling behind him, and opened his eyes to stare down the side of the building again, mildly surprised to feel wetness on his lashes, considering that he felt utterly nothing. 

“Steve, don’t you talk like that, buddy. The world might not even _be_ here if it weren’t for you. Why don’t you come on down from there, man, let’s talk inside, yeah?” Sam said, and Steve felt him twisting a fist into the fabric of his flapping bathrobe, as if that would stop him from tumbling over the edge like domino.

Steve tipped his face up to the sky. The stars were always so much brighter in the winter, even more so when the winds picked up and blew all the smog out of the city. He remembered sitting back to back with Bucky on the frozen ground somewhere outside of Bavaria, huddled together for warmth, staring up at these very stars. 

_You ever think about what you’re gonna do after the war, Buck?_

_Yeah. I’m gonna eat a steak the size of my head and get an apartment with its own john. What about you, Stevie boy?_

_I don’t know… I was always just focused on getting over here, I never thought much about what I’d do when it was all over…_

_You could use your GI bill to go back to art school you know._

_I guess… Sometimes it just feels like this is all there’s gonna be, you know?_

_“Yeah… I know…_

He remembered how warm that spot had been where Bucky’s back pressed into his own. He couldn’t be cold when they were out there together. And now… now he depended on Tony for a home and meals, he’d had a pretty damn big hand in the collapse of the world’s most powerful secret agency, and everything he ever thought he’d done right, had been in service of the very people he’d gone down fighting against. He may as well not even bothered putting that plane in the ice, for all the good it did the world. 

Steve looked up at the North star, the Lodestar, the bright point of light that guided him through the darkness for so many years, until his vision blurred from cold and tears. 

_“Steve!”_ Sam said sharply behind him, tugging backwards a bit on his robe.

“It’s all right, Sam. It’ll be all right…” Steve said softly, and closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath. It will be so easy; all he had to do was tip forward a bit, push off with his curled toes, lift his heels, and…

A warm hand abruptly gripped his tightly, yanking him backwards, and he fell backwards onto the rooftop deck, into Sam’s arms. Sam held onto him like he might escape.

“Steve, we’re going inside,” he said softly, firmly, and Steve didn’t move, realizing just how warm Sam was. He stared past him at the skyline for a long moment. 

“Okay.” He whispered, nodding minutely, and Sam held his hand in an iron grip as he led them back inside, even though the bitter wind clutched and grasped at Steve, desperate to drag him back to that ledge once more.


End file.
